


not another hero like one

by XtaticPearl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 16:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20067403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XtaticPearl/pseuds/XtaticPearl
Summary: Heroes weren't supposed to be legacies and two people try to get through just another shitty day bearing the weight of both.





	not another hero like one

“Dads leave. No need to be a pussy about it.”

“Jes - what is wrong with you?” Peter choked but it was on a laugh, a horrendous gurgle of hysteria and humour. His eyes slid up to the open faceplate and his lips were ticked upwards, just a little on the side. “What is - who says that, Keener.”

Harley shrugged, getting out of the black armour as he landed on the balcony, temple bleeding sluggishly and hair soaking in sweat. He’d need to borrow May’s shampoo to get the stink out, or risk Morgan refusing to be in the same room as him again. Somewhere a few blocks down, Sam and Barnes were still arguing about the merits of letting Spiderman disappear before debrief. He’d place his bets on the Winter Soldier this time and block Captain America’s calls for a week. 

They were used to it; he wouldn’t want to usurp the ‘responsible’ tag from the team’s resident good kid. 

“What’s the change this time?” he asked instead of elaborating on the topic, switching the armour’s code to stand-by before flopping down on the balcony’s edge, feet swinging off it as he leaned back to eye the mural in front of them. 

The red mask lay crumpled beside Peter, an inch leaning towards toppling over the edge of their seat. He didn’t care for it, this ritual that the friendly neighbourhood hero of Queens catered to religiously. Shrines and memorials meant distaste to Harley. And art didn’t really matter, not unless it was something with a numerical puzzle to it. 

He preferred flying, shooting forward through every dark cloud and becoming better. Soar, push, outrun - the best way to survive was to be the better one in a fight. 

Watching a spray-painted graffiti from a fire-escape or an apartment balcony wasn’t going to help him. 

Peter wasn’t him. 

“He added skates,” Peter brushed his hair out of his face, a faint smile of amusement in his eyes as he looked out at the portrait of Iron Man filled out over the brick wall. Harley peered at it, raising a brow at the new rollers painted as a hint at the feet of the armour. 

Miles Morales was going to be some hotshot artist someday but Harley really wished he’d stop giving ideas to make the armour dorkier. Plus, Harley hated skating and it would just make him unsteady -

“Did he even know to skate?” he asked, tipping his face up at the breeze that gave some relief to the annoying stickiness of the grime. 

Peter didn’t answer and that was okay, he usually didn’t. The mechanic Harley knew wasn’t the same guy Spiderman did. They didn’t remember him or miss him the same way either. 

Sometimes Harley wondered if not missing him was that bad. He could do with that someday. 

_He fucked up too_, Harley thought as he contemplated picking up a sandwich from Joe’s downstairs. Maybe a tuna sandwich, with some soda to go. 

_You’re not his legacy, you drowning idiot_, he didn’t tell Peter but he’d said it before, once when their blow-up had been more serious than befitting teammates. He was working on not saying things that didn’t help now. 

“I should have been quicker,” Peter exhaled as he rapidly blinked back the trace of tears. Two dead and a burning building. Hill was quietly pissed but Sam would handle her. 

Guilt was a trickier spot and Harley really didn’t want to deal with it. 

He wondered what his evaluation would be if he said that out aloud during their regular psych evals. _I’m a superhero but if I can’t save someone I’m not gonna cry at night about it. I try and that’s all I want to do. _

He wasn’t sure if they _didn’t_ know that already. Maybe they were just desperate for _any_ heroes now. The world had always been this way, as far as he remembered. 

Still, flying was good and getting a mission right somehow translated to fewer bouts of workshop exiles. 

Maybe his perfectionism was Peter’s guilt - an obsession to have something cracked so you had space to work the next day. Everybody needed to fix something, didn’t they?

Or maybe that was just - well, it didn’t matter. 

“You could build jet packs into the -”

“I’m not going to fly, Harley”

“Boo, you -,” he caught sight of Peter’s quick look and ended it tamely, “bore. We’re a flying team. It’s our thing. Even Captain America flies.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t,” the knee colliding with his hip made Harley flick a finger hard, “We could just train together, _you_ fly.”

“What do you call the torture we do every week in an ungodly hour?” Harley snorted, rolling his eyes at the unfazed stare, “You jump, I catch, what’s so complicated about it, Parker?”

“We train”

“I’m not going to hug you and fly,” Harley declared with a hint of a smirk, raising a hand in surrender at the fake puppy eyes, “Geez, MJ’s right, you’re an emo drama queen.”

“Coming from the eternal goth,” Peter grinned, his face still red and tear tracks drying on his cheeks but they were all good at picking themselves up at some point. 

“It’s _stealth_,” Harley corrected as Peter waved at the armour, “Fuck off, I’m hungry and I just booked a supreme lecture session with Sam when we get back. You owe me a sandwich.”

“Nobody asked you to follow,” Peter shot back lightly but rolled to his feet at the prodding, jostling Harley when he tried to get up. They’d mooch double sandwiches off Joe and Harley would conveniently forget to pay Peter back for it. And then they’d get back home, a little tired, a little defeated, but still present. 

Peter was right, nobody asked Harley to follow, but sometimes dads left and the kids had to stuff the too-large shoes with shared bits of whatever they had. 

Doing it together made things easier. Just a little. Just enough. 


End file.
